Dark Roads

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  For Jennifer Enderlin and Mel Berger

  PROLOGUE

  No one ever wakes up thinking, I’m going to die on a dark road tonight, but that’s the point, isn’t it? You’re young and free, with your entire life ahead of you. You’re busy falling in love, arguing over stupid things with your family, thinking of the perfect witty comment for Instagram. You take chances. You drive too fast and drink too much. Time unwinds in front of you like a luxurious, brightly colored ball of yarn. You think you have years to get it right. Then, all of a sudden, you meet the wrong person, and it’s over.

  Death didn’t come for me with a beautiful burst of light or angels singing, or anything, really. It was sharp, piercing pain, his eyes staring into mine as he choked me, and surprise. Even as my throat collapsed and blood vessels broke in my eyes, I thought someone was going to drive down the highway. Someone was going to see. There would be headlights and screaming.

  Well, there was screaming. Until, like I said, he choked it all out of me.

  I’m not the only one here. Many of us are still waiting, lingering in the air like whispers. We don’t talk about our deaths, or how we each made our fatal mistake, but I imagine we all knew about the Cold Creek Highway long before our bodies were dumped in a ditch or buried in the woods under a blanket of damp moss. You couldn’t grow up in the North without your parents warning you, or the clerk at the gas station telling you to watch out, or walking past posters of the victims with their sweet, hopeful smiles. All those grainy photos lined up in rows like they were in some sort of tragic yearbook. Graduating to nowhere.

  How many victims are there? The newspapers will tell you that twenty cases have been connected to the highway, more than half were First Nations, all of them young. Truth is no one knows for sure. Their bones are scattered, their names a brief note in a missing persons file.

  You’re wondering how someone could get away with all these killings unnoticed. It’s a fair question—if you’ve never driven the nearly five-hundred-mile highway that stretches west through the mountains to the coast in a long, undulating swath of gray. The towns and First Nations communities are small and far apart, with no buses or other sources of public transportation.

  The forest is a wall of thick impenetrable trees and dense underbrush that scratches at skin already welted from blackflies and mosquitoes. The mountains are sheer, the ravines deep and lined with jagged rocks or loose gravel that can slide a body all the way down and never return it. The rivers swell with rain and swallow anything in their path. Bears, cougars, and wolves carry off bones. Shrubs and ferns grow over the rest. The land is made for hiding.

  There are only a few police stations, some with a handful of officers. It wasn’t like it is now, with computers and databanks. There was no communication, no obvious pattern to the murders. Or maybe it was just blatant racism that had the police overlooking the problem. What was one more missing First Nations girl to them? Thousands were already missing or murdered across the country. White victims were given more attention, more press.

  By the time the RCMP realized that someone was hunting more than deer in the North and formed a task force, the cases went back decades. Witnesses forgot crucial details. Evidence was lost or destroyed. DNA had been recovered, but there were multiple samples that never matched to anyone. The original suspect was thought to be a trucker or a logger, someone transient. They speculated that he’d died and one, or more, had taken his place.

  The town erected a billboard warning women not to hitchhike. As if that would stop a girl hell-bent on running away or looking for a good time. The police promised to step up their patrols, while vigilantes with shotguns took nightly drives and swore that they’d put an end to it. But women still went missing. Sometimes from the highway, other times from nearby communities. They were seen at a party or walking home, then never again.

  Northerners said that there was something evil in those mountains. The highway was haunted, and so was the town of Cold Creek—the last real stop for gas and provisions before taking your chances on the dark road ahead. It was also the last place several women had been seen.

  Others said danger was just part of living in that rugged and remote terrain. Death of some type was always certain. Bored kids would get into trouble. Poverty led to violence.

  Tourists spoke about blinding headlights in their rearview mirrors that disappeared just as quickly. Teens told stories around fires and scared each other on shadowed trails, then giggled in relief when their friends leapt out. The highway was a favorite topic for sleepovers and Ouija boards. Every year someone dressed as a killer truck driver on Halloween.

  Maybe you’re thinking, Why would anyone ever visit such a terrible place, let alone live there? Well, the North taketh away, but the North also giveth. The valley between the mountains is rich with soil, and crops flourish. There is hunting, fishing, and cheap land, unencumbered by pesky neighbors and city rules. Most of the townspeople are third- or fourth-generation, but others come searching for work in logging and mining and never leave.

  I imagine it was easy for them to tell themselves that it was only unwary women and girls who fell victim to the highway. They had been too trusting. Too reckless. People were wiser now.

  And they were right, for a while.

  Several years passed without any girls having the bad luck to get murdered. The town relaxed, which was its first mistake. The heat rose that summer, broke records, and teenagers flooded out to the lake for the weekends. Girls walked to the bathrooms alone, skinny-dipped in the moonlight, and flashed truckers, until another body was found in the long, yellowed grass by the side of the road. An unfortunate motorist had stopped to pick wildflowers and got more than he bargained for. The dead woman was suspected to be a drug-addicted prostitute.

  There was a public vigil and there were community safety meetings, but in private most people thought that it was the woman’s lifestyle that led to her death. Who was to say it wasn’t her pimp or her drug dealer? But then, not two years later, a high school girl disappeared from a party in a cattle field bordering the highway. No evidence, no arrests. Days later, the farmer’s dog uncovered her decomposing body in a culvert. Her photo was added to the posters.

  Amateur sleuths hit the internet, opening Facebook groups and Reddit threads, tracing license plates and old prison records. Journalists wrote in-depth articles and scored book deals, hoping they’d succeed where the police had failed. But they haven’t. No one has.

  Our families and friends keep our roadside crosses painted and bring fresh flowers, teddy bears, and LED candles. The candles flicker for weeks until their batteries run out. People say silent prayers as they drive past. We hear them, and then we watch you leave us behind.

  You want to know which one I am, where I fit into the timeline of broken lives. Does it matter? We all share the same story, even if our killers are different, and we want to tell you our secrets. But that’s the thing with whisper
s. You have to listen closely to hear us.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  Hailey

  JUNE 2018

  The door creaked open behind me. Footsteps shuffled across the floor to where I lay on my side, facing the wall and scrolling through photos on my phone, videos. He stopped inches from the bed. He thought he was being sneaky, but the mattress dipped as he leaned over, breathing across the back of my neck, stirring the hairs there. Little puffs of bubble-gum-toothpaste-scented air.

  “Hailey? You awake?”

  I rolled over, met my little cousin face-to-face. His brown eyes were delighted, his dark hair damp and spiking out in all different directions like he’d rubbed a towel over it. He climbed up beside me, sprawled on his back, his head on my other pillow, and kicked one of his legs in the air. He was wearing shorts and his knees were scratched. He smelled of suntan lotion.

  “Are you still sad?”

  I blinked hard. “Yes.”

  He flipped onto his side, squirmed closer, and ran his toy car up my shoulder to my neck with a vroom, vroom sound. “Mommy said I’m not supposed to bother you.”

  “So why are you in here?” I narrowed my eyes, but he just giggled and bumped his head under my chin, his fine hair tickling my nose.

  “Can I come with you if you go to the doctor?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Vaughn said if you didn’t get better soon, they would take you to see the doctor. They have toys in the waiting room.” He looked at me hopefully.

  “I’m not sick.”

  Lana’s voice called out from the kitchen. “Cash? Where are you?”

  His eyes widened. “Here, you can sleep with Billy. He’s my favorite.” He shoved a red truck into my hand and scurried out of the room, socks sliding as he rounded the corner.

  I put the truck on my night table. My water glass was empty, and I needed to go to the bathroom. I sat up and hung my head, tried to run my hands through my hair, but it was all in knots. My phone buzzed on the bed. I swiped my thumb across the screen. Jonny.

  Come to the lake tonight.

  I texted back. Not in the mood, loser-face.

  It might help, lame-ass.

  I pushed the truck back and forth with one finger, its wheels squeaking on the wood surface. The lake. I hadn’t been there for weeks. The water would be getting warmer. I listened to the noises out in the kitchen. Lana banging dishes, Cash pleading for more cookies. They smelled good. Maybe I’d feel like eating today. I took a shaky breath and messaged Jonny back.

  I’ll think about it. Text you later.

  * * *

  The hallway was lined with photos of Cash as a baby, then as a toddler, the most recent one with his baseball bat over his shoulder. Photos of Vaughn and Lana on their wedding day. Cash standing between them, holding their hands and smiling proudly in his suit. A painting of an RCMP officer on the back of his horse, next to an official certificate. I peered closer. Erick Vaughn. I’d forgotten his first name was Erick. Even Lana didn’t call him that.

  I walked into their country-cute kitchen with the scrubbed-clean butcher-block counters, the cheerful yellow bowl of red apples.

  My aunt Lana was standing at the counter, blending something. The ice made loud crunching sounds as it broke up. She spotted me out of the corner of her eye and shut off the machine.

  “Hailey!” She gestured to the green slush. “Want to share a smoothie?”

  “I could use some coffee.”

  “Sit, sit. I’ll get you a cup.”

  “Thanks.”

  She set down the coffee, then flitted about the kitchen, cutting fruit and arranging pieces on a plate with cookies. She carried it over and placed it in front of me. She’d peeled an apple and orange, slicing them into careful sections as though I were six like Cash.

  She sat across from me. Her hair was as black as my mom’s had been, but Lana’s was cut in a sleek bob that skimmed her toned shoulders. She did yoga and Pilates, got up early and made Vaughn breakfast. Ironed his uniforms, always greeted him at the door. I wondered if it was hard being the sergeant’s wife. If she worried that he might not make it home one night. I used to worry about Dad when he drove up the mountain alone. Turned out I was right to be scared.

  Cash looked at me from where he was building something with Legos in front of the TV. I stuck my tongue out. He grinned, all gap-toothed, then he saw my cookies and frowned at his mom.

  “No fair!”

  “When you clean your room, you can have more too.” Cash groaned, and she turned back to me. “Remember, before you shower, that you need to leave the window wide open. We haven’t gotten the fan fixed yet. If you need more shampoo and conditioner, soap, let me know.”

  “I can buy my personal stuff. I was hoping to get a job at the diner.”

  “Oh, if you want, but there will be a little money after the estate settles, and Vaughn was planning on investing some for your college fund. Maybe get you a car.”

  “There might not be much.”

  She set down her fork. “We should start sorting through your dad’s belongings.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “Well…” She looked so uncomfortable that somehow it made it all seem worse. More final, if that was even possible. “Vaughn thinks we should list the house soon, so it can sell this summer for a good price. He knows someone who wants to buy your dad’s tools and—”

  “No.” When I saw her startled look, I added, “They’re mine.”

  “What are you going to do with tools?”

  “Store them at Jonny’s.”

  Lana wrinkled her forehead at the tone of my voice. “I’m sure Vaughn wouldn’t mind if you wanted to put them in our garage.”

  “I don’t know…” I mumbled. “He keeps it so clean.”

  She searched my face. “He makes you nervous.”

  He made everyone nervous. I shook my head, but I couldn’t meet her eyes, and she sighed.

  “I know you kids call him the Iceman, but he’s not always like that. You see how he is with Cash. He’s only tough because he cares about this town.”

  Yeah, Vaughn seemed okay with Cash, considering he wasn’t his father, and didn’t complain about the toys left lying everywhere or having to watch the same Disney movies on repeat, but when Vaughn was in uniform, he’d ticket someone for doing a few kilometers over the limit, then get them for having a burnt-out license plate light. He had tossed people in jail overnight just for arguing with him. I’d never met Lana’s first husband, some photographer in Seattle who left her broke. He didn’t visit Cash. When she moved back a couple of years ago, she met Vaughn at a memorial for the highway victims. Now she only had to work part-time at the florist’s, drove a shiny Acura with leather seats, and lived in a four-bedroom house. It was like there were two Vaughns. I didn’t want to be around either of them.

  “Everything’s just so different.”

  Lana reached over and held my hand. “I know, give it some time. We don’t have to clear out the house right away. It’s so beautiful. It will sell fast.”

  I shaped my lips into a polite smile. “Thanks.” I pulled my hand away slowly, hoping she wouldn’t notice anything was wrong, but she was still giving me that concerned look.

  “Vaughn has a Moose Lodge meeting tonight. How about we make popcorn and watch a movie? Or we could just talk?”

  “Some of my friends are going to see the new Avengers at the theater and I thought I might meet up with them. I’ll take my bike, so you don’t have to drive me.” I didn’t want to lie, but I had to get out of here for a few hours. Jonny was right. I needed the lake. The woods.

  “Okay. Well, don’t stay out too late.” She searched her mind like she was trying to think of an appropriate curfew for a seventeen-year-old. “Maybe eleven?”

  “It’s a long movie and we might get some food after.”

  She looked at me, hesitating, and I realized she wasn’t sure if she should be firmer. It was
just as weird for her as it was for me. This new relationship.

  “I’ll text you.”

  “That would be great.” Her face relaxed. I got up and took my dishes to the sink, put them away, and slipped a couple of cookies under my sleeve.

  “I’m going to have a shower.” Before I left the living room, I crouched beside Cash, dropped the cookies into his hand, and whispered into his ear, “Thanks for the truck.”

  * * *

  Four texts—one asking if I’d gotten to the movie theater okay, another asking me to text her when the movie was over, then two more when she thought I was at Dairy Queen. Hope you’re having fun! Moments later: Let me know when you’re on your way home. Except that their house wasn’t my home. I texted that my battery was dying. I’d try to be back by eleven.

  I shoved my phone into my bag, wrapped my arms around my knees, and pressed my face against my cold skin. Was this what it was like to have a mom? Would my mom have texted all the time? I didn’t remember much about her, little things like her reading me stories and doing cute voices, the smell of her oil paints. Dad said she was easygoing and fun, but she died when I was five. Maybe she would have changed. Maybe we would have argued.

  Dad would say I should give Lana a chance. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t around for most of my life. When Mom got sick, Lana had called every day, sent flowers, and she visited at the end, when Mom was dying, and stayed for the funeral. She tried to keep in touch, but Dad and I were happy doing our own thing, and by the time she did move back, we were strangers.

  My thoughts were broken by a scream as one of the girls leapt off the dock into the lake—a black abyss at this time of night. People stood around with flashlights and lanterns. More splashes, then laughing. Music pulsed across the water—southern rap with a lot of bass. I squeezed my eyes shut, focused on the heat coming off the bonfire, the flickering orange light. My shirt was almost dry, the bikini top string tangled in my hair, but my bottoms were still damp under my cutoffs.